The Robin

Quiet evenings I’d spend
Contemplating everything
By the front window
By the Old Silver Oak
And there was a bird. 

He’d color my gray whispers
with his song of a warm summer
And we’d listen carefully carefree
Me and his lover for the season and
Sometimes my lover for the season.

It was a happy song too.
But as the summer’d start fading
Some notes refused to smile anymore
Only deepening and darkening.
This loss did make me weep
Cold winter brought along
His beautiful song too
But in my dreams


  1. I, on the other hand, immediately connected to your poem, as the bird lover I am. Robins breed all year long here in the UK, yes, and could live longer, no doubt, but their life span in the wild is just thirteen months (mainly because of predators like cats and human activity… so it is likely that a robin you heard singing in the summer will not be the same robin you will hear singing in the spring). In addition, it is precisely now, when the summer starts saying its good-byes, that robins (and most birds) hide and become quite because they moult, and this makes them fragile and prone to being attacked by their predators, so they hide and don’t sing as often or as loud. So your poem works. But it simply works, Prashant, because the birds of poetry have no obligation to follow the natural rules the birds of biology do: that is our poetic licence.

    Thank you for your generosity.

    1. Thank you Mr. Romero. It actually is good to know that the poem works both ways. Cheers to all Robins all around the world…and to all birds…and to bird lovers…and to poets…

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